Spelling was beyond me, “unlettered small-knowing
soul,” ungoverned, on
Sesame Street—Forgetful Jones. Hymns have their rhythm,
Dickinson stole
from church, problematic anthems, black and white speckles on
the “theme”
notebooks, blue lines, red margin. I ought to have a scheme,
something other than
a compulsion to fill in the blanks. This is your skin, prepared for a
thousand words,
this is your tongue prepared for four scrolls. “Certain bounds hold
against chaos.”
